Halifax, Canada
January 2012

With no place to go

With a sigh, I watch as the line in front of me moves forward the tiniest bit. I've been standing here for over 30 minutes and I am still one turn away from the booths of the US border police people. And, I mean, I get wanting to check who enters your country, but would it be too much to ask to have a reasonable number of officers on duty?

At least coming from Canada, we get pre-clearing before the flight. There was an Indian girl in my macroeconomics course and she told me about once waiting for three hours at customs at JFK. This here is admittedly somewhat faster, but still. This line is moving at a snail's pace.

(Not for the first time, I think back to Ken pointing out his getting preferential treatment at customs and feel a grumpy kind of envy. I, too, want a diplomatic passport to shove under people's noses!)

The man in front of me shuffles forward two steps and when I don't make up the gap immediately, someone pokes me in the back. Looks like I'm not the only one whose patience is wearing thin.

My first instinct is to turn around and glare, but I manage to control myself. By keeping my head down and my hair under a knitted toque, I have so far evaded recognition at this airport and I'd like to keep it that way, please and thank you. (The woman who printed out my boarding pass at the check-in counter did, naturally, recognise my name, but it was only after I had turned around to leave that she leaned over to alert her colleague. When I dared a glance back, I could see them giggling.)

With nothing else to do, I take out my phone and check for new messages. There's one from Dan (him and Joy and the kids having travelled ahead some days ago) asking to confirm my ETA so he knows when to pick me up at LaGuardia, and another one from Seraphina, suggesting a movie night next weekend. Quickly, I reply to them both, and when I'm done, we have thankfully moved on a little. I am now past the last turn and just a little distance away from the border police officers. With little else to do until I have finally reached them, I use the time to do some discreet people watching.

The man in front of me seems nervous. He's fidgety and steals constant glances at the customs booths. Of course, that could easily be down to a bad experience with the officers staffing them or with the fact that he looks to be of Asian descent (which is always more likely to get someone questioned more thoroughly, for all kinds of nasty racist reasons), but I have little doubt that they're going to call him up for a secondary security screening. When they smell nervousness, these border police officers turn into bloodhounds without any further warning.

In front of the Asian man and just about to be called up to one of the booths is a couple with two small children and I immediately feel a twinge of sympathy. If there's anyone grumpier than the immigration officers in this hall, it's those two children. The parents look already stressed out and they haven't even come close to a plane!

With the man in front of me walking over to the next free counter, I reach into my bag for my passport and the necessary paperwork. (Seriously, considering the fact that most of that paperwork comes courtesy of the US government in the first place, they are strangely adamant that I always carry hard copies with me whenever I attempt to go back to the US. You'd think they'd have this in their computers, but… apparently not so.)

The family, unsurprisingly, gets cleared before the Asian-looking man does, and I quickly take their place at the customs booth. If I have learned one thing it's that US border police aren't known for their patience.

"Papers?" asks a bored blonde woman, even as I am already placing my passport in front of her.

I already had it open at the page with my F1 visa stamp (student visa, that is), but she flicks through it anyway. Not that there's anything else in there but a stamp proving my entry into Switzerland in 2007. And, I mean, is there a more inoffensive place in the world than Switzerland?

"Form I-20," demands the woman and I slide over the document to her. It was issued by NYU and has all kinds of information about my studies, like where and what I study and when it began and when it's expected to end, right down to financial information. I have to have it signed by someone at NYU before I leave the country, too, or else, they're not letting me in anymore.

"What is the purpose of your stay in the United States?" enquires the woman, quite as if that wasn't absolutely obvious from the form I just handed her.

"To finish my studies I began there in 2008," I answer, trying not to appear impatient. I know the spiel. It's the same every single sodding time.

"How long do you intend to stay in the US?" adds the woman.

"Until my graduation," I reply. "That is, until May this year." It's the date on the Form I-20 and I'd do well not to say anything else. Overstaying your visa is a very serious crime, apparently.

"What was the purpose of your stay in Canada?" the woman wants to know.

Not that I have any idea why that is any of her business, but of course I answer anyway. Total cooperation and all that. "I celebrated Christmas with my family."

"Where in Canada does your family live?" (God, she's nosy, that one.)

"In Halifax." A beat, as I try to decide whether any more information would be too much information, but then settle for full disclosure anyway. "We have a holiday home on Prince Edward Island. That's where we spent the holidays."

The woman makes an indecipherable sound, before moving on to the next line of questioning. "Have you ever held employment in the United States?"

"Just on-campus." Under my visa, that's the only kind of employment I'm allowed anyway. If I were to start waitressing at a place not in connection with NYU, I'd face immediate deportation.

"Do you intend to take up employment in the US in the future?" Her voice is strangely droning. It grates on my nerves.

"No." I shake my head. "I intend to return to Canada for work after I graduate." (In truth, I have no idea whether I won't maybe one day want to work in the US. But if I tell her that, she'll think I might overstay my visa to look for work and she won't like that. No need to complicate this process unduly.)

Sharply moving her head, the woman directs me to the fingerprint scanner at my right side. I know the drill, so I get all ten fingerprints and my picture taken with just minimal instructions. If, however, I thought this might improve the woman's mood, I was mistaken. With the biometrics done, she turns to her computer and starts typing without so much as another look at me.

It gives me an opportunity to let my gaze rove a little. The couple and their two kids are gone, but at the other end of the hall, I can see the Asian man being led through a set of doors by another officer. (Called it!) His place at the booth has been taken by a woman and her decidedly spotty teenaged son.

I am still marvelling at the fact that so many spots can fit on one single face, when the police woman clears her throat to get my attention. I turn to her with a smile, holding out my hand for my papers and passport, but instead find her holding out a slip of paper. Frowning I accept it, noticing the large black X printed on it.

"Miss, I must ask you to step out of line. Someone will come to collect you presently."

Um…

"What for?" I ask slowly, turning the paper slip in my hand.

"We have some additional questions," answers the woman, not missing a beat.

Some additional…? But… but…

Are they sending me to secondary security screening?

"This must be a misunderstanding," I tell her with a forced little laugh. "I have all my papers in order. I never had any issues entering the US."

"Please step out of line, Miss," the woman repeats, her face expressionless. "Someone will be with you shortly."

Stunned, I look between her and the large black X on my receipt. "My passport? And my visa papers?" I ask finally, my gaze settling on the navy booklet and the papers still lying on the desk in front of the woman.

"We're keeping this for the time being. You will get it back at an appropriate time," she replies. There's a tinge of sharpness to her voice now that I recognise as impatience.

Not wanting to anger her further, I slowly take a couple of steps back. Looking around, I can see a man approaching, wearing the dark blue uniform of US customs. "Please come with me, Miss," he asks upon having reached me, moving his hand to indicate the double doors through which the Asian man disappeared earlier.

Lowering my head, I quickly walk in direction of the doors, hoping that none of the other prospective passengers in the room will recognise me. The very last thing I need is to have this splashed all over the Daily Mail tomorrow.

Alas, it's not my lucky day.

"Look, Mum," calls out the spotty teenager as we pass him. "Isn't that the chick who dates that prince?"

"Austin!" chides his mother. But she, too, is peering at me.

Not that it has any effect on Austin anyway. "They're taking her away. Do you think she did something illegal?" he asks, clearly fascinated by the thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him staring, mouth hanging slightly open.

"Austin!" scolds the mother again. (And yet, what's betting she's going to tell this to all of her neighbours the first chance she gets?)

Part of me is tempted to stop and give Austin a piece of my mind myself, but I know that's absolutely out of the question. For one, the police guy might let me walk on my own for now, but he doesn't seem to be the cosy type and I don't doubt he's going to drag me to that room forcibly if he thinks I'm resisting. For another, me detained by US border police is a juicy enough story for the press as it is. I don't need them to have another one of me snapping at law-abiding citizens. (Never mind that I'd bet just about anything on Austin smoking pot in his free time, so how law-abiding he really is is up for debate.)

So, I just lower my head a little more and quicken my steps and pray that this entire mess will be over soon.

"This way," directs the officer as we step through the double doors, and points me towards a holding area to the side. "Wait here," he instructs. "Someone will be with you."

"How long will this take?" I ask cautiously, as he is already turning away.

A beat, before he slowly turns to look at me again. "As long as it takes." And the tone of his voice makes it immediately clear that he doesn't care the slightest bit that I have a flight to catch in a little over an hour.

With a sigh, I watch the officer leave, before pushing my bag further up my shoulder and stepping into the holding area. It's not filled to capacity, but it is far from empty as well. Which is… which is pretty weird, isn't it? If you think about it, I mean.

We are in Canada. And while us Canadians are generally far less prone to bullying than US border police is, we also don't let people in willy-nilly. We've got quite good checks at our own airports, right? And the only country we share a land border with is the US, so any illegals or criminals entering by land were in the US before they came here. What I'm saying is that most, if not all of these people in here were approved for entry by Canada. Which makes you wonder what the bloody Americans problem is, really. (Of course, I can't help but notice that the only other white person in here is a man in his fifties who looks… less than well-cared for. So, you know, that might be a hint. We certainly seem to have come a long way from "give me your tired, your poor" and all that.)

Alas, I have no idea why I am here either. And no way to find out until some of these people deign to speak with me and allow me to clarify whatever misunderstanding lies at the root of this.

Not that they're in a hurry.

Having sat down on a not very comfortable plastic chair, I feel tempted to pull out my phone, but think better of it. I can't imagine these people much like someone using their phone while they're…. being investigated, or something. (Never mind that we're technically still in sodding Canada!)

Instead, I look up at a large clock hanging on one wall and make a mental note of the time. Just a little before noon. Moving my gaze downwards, I see the Asian man who was in front of me in the queue. He meets my eye and smiles sympathetically.

"When does your flight leave?" he enquires politely.

I frown. "Quarter past one. Do you think…?"

But he has already started shaking his head before I have finished the question. "If you're lucky, they'll have you in for questioning by that time," he explains.

I take a deep breath. Just effing great!

"You've done this before?" I ask, moving my hand to encompass the holding area and everything behind it.

He nods, looking resigned. "My name is similar to another name they have on one of their lists. I get stopped almost every time."

Which explains his earlier nervousness. Poor guy.

"I have no idea why I'm here," I confess. "No-one said."

"They don't," nods the man. "They like to keep you in the dark for as long as possible."

Charming people.

Over his head, the long hand of the clock ticks forward one.

I take a deep breath. "So, now, we just…"

"We wait," finishes the man. "We just wait."

And wait we do.

We wait as the clock moves forward to half past twelve, then one o'clock. We're still waiting when the time for my flight to depart comes and goes. We wait as other people leave and arrive at the holding area, none of them looking even remotely happy to be here. We wait and wait and wait, while time moves like molasses. By half past one, I feel an irrational hatred towards the clock hanging on the wall. By two o'clock, I am devising elaborate murder plans against any and all people who might somehow be held responsible for this. (It doesn't quite matter who I am murdering in my mind. The very act of imagining it makes me feel a little better.)

At five past two, the Asian man gets called to see an officer.

"Good luck," I wish him as he passes me.

"You, too," he nods, before disappearing behind yet another door.

Another five minutes pass and I am just wondering whether the power granted to US border control also extends to manipulating time to pass at a fraction of its normal speed, when a cheerless man comes over to the holding area and points at me. "You."

Taking this as an order to follow him, I quickly get to my feet and stumble after him, through a different door than the Asian man and into the office behind.

"Sit," orders the man and I do as I am told. By this point, there's little I wouldn't do to get out of this strange situation. This… limbo.

With the officer sitting down in a chair that looks much more comfortable than mine, we settle into a round of questioning that includes the usual questions of whether I was ever a member of the Nazi party, the mafia or a terrorist organisation (which has to make you wonder if anyone ever says yes to those) and goes over most of what the woman already asked earlier, just even more in depth.

Twenty minutes later, it is still ongoing and I still have no idea what their effing problem is.

I bite my lip to keep from sighing. I feel a headache coming on and I have no idea when they're going to let me leave. (After which I still have a two-and-a-half-hours flight to suffer through – provided there's another one going to New York today, of course.)

With a scraping noise, the man suddenly shoves his chair back, making me sit up straighter in surprise. When I also move to stand up, he shakes his head. "Sit."

Slowly, I let myself sink back down on the chair. The man has already turned, and, without another word, left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. For several seconds, I stare at the door, not knowing what to do. I'd like to take out my phone and call Dan, to tell him I'm going to be very late, but there's a camera above the door and I don't dare. So, I just sit back, fold my hands in my lap and wait.

Ten minutes.

Twenty minutes.

Thirty minutes.

Only after thirty-seven minutes is there a short knock on the door, before it is opened, revealing yet another man in a border police uniform.

"Miss Blythe?" he asks. "Good afternoon. My name is Crawford Drew and I'd like to have a little chat with you, if that's alright."

Too flabbergasted by this sudden show of politeness, I can do nothing but nod. (I am, in fact, too surprised to even snigger at the name.)

Crawford Drew takes his seat on the other side of the desk and places a closed folder on it.

"You're studying at New York University, I have seen," he remarks with a smile.

Slowly, I nod. I'm still not sure whether I can trust him.

"What made you decide on New York?" he enquires, looking genuinely interested.

I blink at him, feeling stumped for a moment. "I guess… my sister and her family went there and, well… I liked the idea of studying in New York, I think? It sounded like an adventure."

"So, your sister lives there," repeats Crawford Drew man thoughtfully. "Do you have other friends in New York as well? Maybe a boyfriend?"

Huh? Doesn't this man read the papers?

"Friends, yes," I confirm. "No boyfriend though. Not in New York, I mean. Not anymore."

Crawford Drew nods. "But you dated US citizens in the past?"

"Two of my former boyfriends were American." (Coyote Ugly Guy might have been as well, but I have no way of knowing for sure and besides, he hardly counts.)

"Hmm…" makes Crawford Drew. For a moment, he considers me pensively, before asking, "Are you aware that some young women come to the US with a view to finding an American husband?"

Does he think…?

I can't help laughing at the ridiculousness of the thought. "No offence, Sir, but I'm not some kind of marriage fraudster. If that's what you're implying."

He smiles at me. "I'm not implying anything, Miss Blythe. I am just asking questions."

Yeah. Because I haven't been asked enough of those today.

"There are some discrepancies we need to clarify," explains Crawford Drew kindly. "You could speed up the process by giving us your phone."

My phone?

"I… I'm afraid I can't do that," I stutter, my foot angling to draw the handbag sitting by my chair a little closer.

Crawford Drew makes a disappointed face. "And why is that?"

"My boyfriend is… he is somewhat famous. You might have heard about it?" I look at him questioningly, but his face betrays no thought. "Anyway, his number is in my phone. I can't risk… it getting into the wrong hands."

For a long moment, Crawford Drew just looks at me thoughtfully. "What was the last date you and your boyfriend went on?" he finally asks.

I stare at him. What's that got to do with everything?

"We… we don't really go out on dates," I reply slowly.

"Quite an unusual relationship, isn't it?" wonders Crawford Drew. He's still very polite, but something about his demeanour makes me feel uneasy.

"We went to an open-air cinema," I tell him, even as I wonder why I feel the need to defend myself. "And the last time we met up was at The Plaza." (No need to go into the details of this, right?)

Some more seconds pass, with Crawford Drew watching me closely and me shifting slightly in my chair. "Do you often get invited to luxury hotels by wealthy older men, Miss Blythe?" he finally enquires, raising one eyebrow.

I… what?

I blink. Stare. Blink again.

"Does your boyfriend give you expensive gifts?" he presses. "Does he give you money? Does he pay for your upkeep?"

Is he implying… ? Is he suggesting that I am…?

"Are you aware that prostitution is illegal in the United States, Miss Blythe?" Crawford Drew asks sharply.

Opening my mouth to answer, I find that I have no words. Never in my life has anyone ever accused me of… accused me of… I mean, surely he can't mean that?

"Miss Blythe?"

"I'm not…" I stutter, "I'm not… I'm not…"

I feel cold. There's a lump in my throat. I might cry.

Crawford Drew shakes his head slightly and suddenly, the sympathetic smile is back. "Look, Miss Blythe, I believe you. But there are concerns over your employment history and as long as you refuse our request to look at your phone, we must conclude that you are hiding something."

"I'm not hiding anything," I protest, but my voice is weak. "There's nothing wrong with my employment history. And I'm definitely not a… a…" Furiously, I blink away a tear.

"I apologise if I have upset you," remarks Crawford Drew, sounding so reasonable that it's almost hard to believe what he just accused me of, "but we can't allow you to enter the United States until this matter is cleared up."

"Let me go back, then," I suggest, feeling a spark of hope light within me. "Let me go back and I will sort it out from Canada. I mean, we are still in Canada after all. It's easy."

But Crawford Drew gravely shakes his head. "Violating your visa conditions is a serious crime, Miss Blythe, and we can't let you go until we have clarified this issue." A beat. "Unless, of course, you admit to it in writing. We can let you go back then."

So, in other words, I am… stuck. No way forward and no way back.

"Admit to what?" I ask. "To being a… a prostitute?"

This is madness. And I'm absolutely at this guy's mercy. I am completely, totally, utterly helpless.

"Admit to violating your visa conditions by working off-campus," Crawford Drew replies and I hate him for how level-headed he sounds.

"I have never worked off-campus," I protest. But there's no fight in me. I just feel stunned.

"We have information to the contrary." Opening his folder, he slides a newspaper over to me. "It says here that you work at a restaurant. This hardly looks like a college cafeteria."

Reaching out, I draw the paper closer to me. 'From rags to riches? A first look into the posh restaurant Prince Kenneth's Rilla works at' shouts the headline. Below it is a picture of me outside the building, one from the inside of the main dining room and… is that my locker?

"It's… it's wrong." I rub my forehead. God, I am tired. "It's a university club. It's operated by NYU, for staffers and fellows and students and the like. It might look like off-campus work, but it's not."

"There's no mention of this in here," points out Crawford Drew and taps a finger on the paper."

"Well, then they got it wrong, didn't they?" I snap, feeling a sudden surge of anger rise within me. "Wouldn't be the first time either!"

Crawford Drew raises one eyebrow. "I would like to believe you, Miss Blythe, but we need proof. Do you have any papers on you that can prove that this is, in fact, on-campus employment?"

Yes, because I always make a point to carry those with me on holiday.

I ball my hands into fists and bite my tongue to keep from saying something sarcastic, instead just silently shaking my head.

"In that case, we need someone to verify your account," adds Crawford Drew. "For which we need your phone."

He's got me well and truly cornered, doesn't he?

The entire situation is so bloody absurd that I almost want to laugh. Or else, it's just that I need to laugh so as not to cry.

I do neither. I just reach down for my bag and as I do it, I can see a flicker of triumph pass over the face of the man opposite me. He has won and he knows it.

Reluctantly, I unlock my phone and place it between us. "My boss's name is Maureen," I tell him. "And my brother-in-law might be able to get some of those papers from my apartment. His name is Dan."

Not that he really needs the phone for the numbers. After all, he could simply ask me to give those to him. In reality, I bet he wants to check my messages and diary for proof that I worked off-campus, so he can dangle it in front of me and get me to confess. Not that there is anything to confess, of course. Maybe once he's checked the phone, he will see that, too.

"Very well, Miss Blythe. Thank you for your cooperation," smiles Crawford Drew, quite as if he didn't bully me into cooperating in the first place.

Taking my phone and his folder, he pushes his chair back and walks over to the door. "Please wait here."

As if I have any other option.

I watch him open the door and suddenly find myself saying his name. "Officer Drew?"

He turns around. "Miss Blythe?"

"If any of the numbers or messages on that phone find their way into tomorrow's newspaper… well, I won't need to think very hard about where they got them," I inform him, keeping my voice level.

Once more, he raises an eyebrow. "Are you threatening me, Miss Blythe?"

That makes me laugh, albeit humourlessly. "I am hardly in a position to threaten anyone, am I?"

"No," he agrees, while turning for the door again. Instead of walking through it, however, he hesitates for a moment and looks back at me over his shoulder.

"I am a professional, Miss Blythe. I'm not interested in your messages. The only thing that interests me is whether you violated your visa conditions," he tells me, before quickly turning to step through the door, closing it behind himself with a thud.

Maybe he's speaking the truth. Maybe he isn't. Maybe he's going to let me go back to New York. Maybe he isn't. At this point, there's nothing I can do about it either way.

With a sigh, I place my arms on the desk and settle my chin on them. Looks like I'm in for another long wait…


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Early Morning Rain' (written by Gordon Lightfoot, released by him in 1966).


A/N: Once more, many thanks to OriginalMcFishie for pitching in with the beta reading, as well as a special "thank you" to elizasky for helping me with this particular plotline.


Important A/N:
I'm afraid Rilla isn't the only one who will be waiting for a while. I have holidays coming up and while I'm travelling, I'm going to take a little break from writing. Therefore, this story will go on temporary hiatus for a couple of weeks. Regular posting will resume on June 19th (maybe June 12th if the muse strikes, but I'm not making any promises). See you all in June!